


Like Wine

by kuriadalmatia



Series: Of Claws and Cards [2]
Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-05-24
Updated: 2003-05-24
Packaged: 2017-10-29 23:11:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/325217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuriadalmatia/pseuds/kuriadalmatia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Logan shows up to the boathouse for his usual rendezvous with Remy, he discovers the resident thief decides to put his skills to the test.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Wine

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to a Yahoo!Group in May 2003, when I was just getting back to writing fanfic again. No beta.
> 
> Readers from the Yahoo!Group wanted wanted a “Hungry Like the Wolf” inspired romp.
> 
> TIMELINE: Again, this is a post-Antarctica story.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: Marvel owns the characters. Duran Duran own the soundtrack.. Salut! I just took them out to play and I promise put them back when I’m done. I’m not making any profit just trying to get these images out of my head.
> 
> Feedback always welcome.

************(((((((((((((()))))))))))))))))************

 _you want me, give me a sign  
And catch my breathing even closer behind_

************(((((((((((((()))))))))))))))))************

Logan knocked on the boathouse door for the fourth time, glancing about to make sure no one was watching him loitering outside. It was something he did out of habit more than anything else. After all, to think that someone would keep such close tabs on Remy LeBeau’s temporary residence would imply that the other X-Men besides Storm and he had forgiven the kid.

They hadn’t.

Ultimately, it didn’t matter even if someone was watching. Logan had a 12-pack of beer in one hand, poker chips in the other, and a fresh cigar sticking out of his mouth. To anyone else, it would seem that Logan had taken pity on the Cajun yet again and decided to pay him the official “you haven’t kill yourself yet, have you?” visit, just like he had done for the past four weeks.

Once or twice a week, Remy wouldn’t show up for dinner at the mansion; ‘Ro would silently plead with her eyes that Logan would make sure Remy was okay. Over the past four weeks, it seemed, he was the only one who was able to penetrate the dour gloom that surrounded the Cajun.

So, on those nights, Logan would trek down to the boathouse after dinner with beer and poker chips. Five hours later, both men would return to the mansion and devour the leftovers. ‘Ro would be suspiciously happy that Logan would come back with a slightly more cheerful Cajun in tow, but wouldn’t say a word when Logan would grumble something about how that damn Cajun beat the pants off of him playing cards.

So it was a lie and she probably knew it. Logan’s pants were never beat off him. Unbuttoned, yes. Pulled down to his ankles, yes. Peeled off with excruciating care, yes. But never beat off of him. As for Remy... well, Logan _had_ sworn to replace the pair of vintage Levi’s he’d sliced off in a moment of unrestrained passion.

“Hey, Gumbo!” he called out, knuckles hitting the wood again.

Still no answer.

By his nature, Logan was patient. Instinct dictated the need to wait, to pause, to observe before striking. However, for Remy not to answer the door or at least acknowledge him outside was unusual. He grew irritated. Had the kid taken off for the night? Had he misinterpreted Remy’s absence from dinner for what had become an unspoken invitation?

Remy, after all, did need his freedom. But after their first tryst in the boathouse, Remy had always been very specific when he was going out for a night on the town. It was usually after the daily Danger Room session that Remy would tell ‘Ro that he was going out and teasingly ask her to join him. He’d also say it loud enough for Logan to hear. ‘Ro’d always playfully turn him down and the Cajun would lament that she was going to miss some first-class dancing.

On those nights, the kid would return, share a smoke with Logan on the porch as if to prove his fidelity by allowing the older man to scent him, and then retreat to the boathouse alone. The kid had stayed loyal to Logan’s bed, a feat which would probably stun the other X-Men who were convinced that Remy’s ultimate goal in life was to fuck more people than Gene Simmons and Magic Johnson combined.

But today, the Cajun hadn’t said one word after the training. When Logan had walked through the garage on his way out to the boathouse, the kid’s bike had been there, the engine cold to the touch.

So just what the hell was up?

He tried the door and it was open. Yet another invitation on Remy’s part. The kid was notorious for locking doors; when Remy was still living in the mansion, it had driven Scooter absolutely nuts because it violated Scooter’s unspoken rule about X-Men trusting each other enough to leave the doors unlocked. So for Remy to leave the boathouse door unlocked was definitely an invitation.

But why hadn’t the kid answered?

Logan walked inside. Nothing had changed. The lighting was the same as it always was. The room temperature was the same as it always was. There were no silly notes or flowers or trails of clothing leading him around the room to "discover" the delectable prize. Thank God the Cajun hadn’t tried any of that over-the-top romantic bullshit. For all the kid’s mouthy comments and the rumors that swirled about his sexual tendencies, Remy LeBeau was remarkably _sophisticated_ \-- the only word Logan could use to describe it -- in his affair with Logan.

Then again, Remy was probably catering to Logan’s personal preferences....

No.

That wasn’t fair.

Their sex-filled evenings always had an air of equality about them, Remy receiving what he needed and Logan able to fulfill his passion.

Damn! No wonder he wanted to devour the kid alive.

In a good way, of course.

It was only when he inhaled sharply in a gesture of frustration did he really pay attention to it. Scent. He flexed his hands automatically. He could detect the variety of herbs -- distinctly Oriental in tang -- that permeated the air. There was silence; no giggles or snorts or heavy breathing. His breathed in again, trying to identify which scents the Cajun had chosen to tease him with. To his utter fascination, he couldn't distinguish them. A smile drew across his lips.

The Cajun, it seemed, decided to play coy this evening.

He put the beer and poker chips down, then adjusted his crotch.

 _************(((((((((((((()))))))))))))))))************_

 _Strut on a line, it's discord and rhyme  
I howl and I whine, I'm after you_

 _************(((((((((((((()))))))))))))))))************_

The thrill chased down Logan’s spine.

Cautiously, he peeked inside Remy's bedroom, fully expecting -- no, _wanting_ \-- the lanky Cajun to be naked and stretched out across the bed.

The room was empty.

This could only mean two things: Remy was lurking in the bathroom or he had... escaped?... outside.

No. Remy was a city kid. No way, *no way* would Remy go that latter route.

Logan's eyes narrowed. He sniffed again, impressed at the thoroughness which Remy had anointed the boathouse. The scent was not overpowering. In fact, it was just at the level to throw him off the direct trail.

As if Remy was challenging him

Hunting. He was hunting... he loved to hunt. Perhaps Remy desired the feeling of being chased down, to be pounced upon... not that Logan had never pounced upon his enticing prize before... but... it was always on Remy’s own terms. No surprises.

Whatever the unspoken reasons were, Logan could not appear out of nowhere and take Remy down from behind.

The first and only time he’d done it, at the culmination of a not-so-playful round of sparring, the Cajun’s scent had changed from lustful aggressiveness to fearful submission in such an instant, Logan’s passion had immediately soured.

Remy had spent the rest of the evening silently trying to make up for it.

Since then, it was a rule. An unspoken one. Logan respected it. Never asking because the explanation was never hinted at.

Although Logan had a distinct feeling he knew just why.

He approached the slightly ajar door to the bathroom. The boathouse’s facilities were basic. A toilet. A sink. A bathtub. The bathtub could barely accommodate the both of them, but on one of Remy’s more impulsive streaks, the Cajun had proven there was room enough for two if they were positioned correctly.

The image caused a painful throb. These jeans were just too damned tight.

That was it. There would be no midnight foodfest at the mansion tonight. If Remy could walk tomorrow with any of that lanky grace or sit down without gasping sharply, the Cajun would be damned lucky.

The lights were out but the room glowed from candlelight. The scent was stronger as he approached, eliciting a tingle throughout his body. He pushed open the door.

He was hunting... definitely hunting.

A new and different thing.

If that Cajun wasn’t there, ready for him, Logan would just have to take matters into his own hand because God knew if he didn’t, he’s be explaining to Blue how he had fucked Remy to death.

The bathroom was empty.

Yes, there were candles.

Yes, the bathtub was full of steamy water.

He trailed a hand in the water. A temperature just below the threshold of “this will cook my balls to oblivion” and just above “catch me if you can.”

Button-fly jeans were definitely a pain in the ass.

 _************(((((((((((((()))))))))))))))))************_

 _In touch with the ground  
I'm on the hunt I'm after you_

 _************(((((((((((((()))))))))))))))))************_

Most men, after shooting their load, would have been impressed by the volume and force.

For Logan, it was simply, “Batter up!”

The first place he searched was, of course, the roof.

The window to the bathroom was open.

Small enough for a lanky Cajun with incredible flexibility to slither through.

Slither.

Shit!

 _Why in t’hell did I wear button-fly’s???_

 _No, Chuck. I didn’t fuck Gambit to senseless oblivion on the roof of the boathouse._

 _And no, that wasn’t me howling at the moon at midnight._

Of course, the Cajun wasn’t on the roof.

 

That would have been too easy.

The slightest of scents.

In two different directions.

The healing factor.

Fucker!

He’d have to hunt with a damned limp.

 _************(((((((((((((()))))))))))))))))************_

 _Stalked in the forest, too close to hide  
I'll be upon you by the moonlight side_

 _************(((((((((((((()))))))))))))))))************_

One trail led up to the mansion, an indirect route following along the winding pathway along the lake.

Remy was a city kid.

That route was safe.

Familiar.

Obvious.

Remy was as much a private man as Logan. Different methods, of course. He supposed if he had been as eye-catching as Remy he may have relied on the same techniques: the three-card Monty. Slight of hand. People making assumptions because of his slinky grace and charming smile. But in his affair with Logan, Remy had remained doggedly tight-lipped. No winks or sly smiles, no double-entendres, no casual touches just because. So entirely different than when the thief had been with Rogue.

So for Remy to lead him back to the mansion....

No.

Logan set out in the other direction.

 _************(((((((((((((()))))))))))))))))************_

 _High blood drumming on your skin, it's so tight_

 _You feel my heart, I'm just a moment behind_

 _************(((((((((((((()))))))))))))))))************_

The scent spiked; the cologne that Remy favored now mixed with the Oriental tang from the boathouse.

Logan was being drawn further into the woods.

He listened carefully, weeding out the normal evening sounds in hopes of picking up the soft footfalls.

What in the hell was he thinking?

Even with his super-sensitive hearing, he only heard Remy approaching when Remy wanted to be heard.

The Cajun moved fast. For his height and build, he shouldn’t have been able to move with the quick grace that he did. Oh, Logan had always known the speed that the kid possessed when fighting, and since that first tumble in the sheets, he continued to be impressed by how well Remy moved.

But here, in surroundings which should clearly be “Advantage: Logan”, the Cajun was proving to be even more cunning and wily in such a foreign environment.

Damn, these jeans were tight.

 _************(((((((((((((()))))))))))))))))************_

 _Scent and a sound, I'm lost and I'm found_

 _************(((((((((((((()))))))))))))))))************_

He had been led beyond the well-worn paths and almost three-quarters mile away from the boathouse. Why this? Why now? Why this incredibly erotic hunt?

In all the years that Logan could remember, none of his lovers had ever played this game with him.

Ever.

And for Remy (who needed a sense of unspoken control) such a tease with the obvious conclusion -- Logan pouncing upon and then more-than-likely savagely claiming his prize -- it was perhaps the highest compliment any lover had ever paid to him.

Trust.

Absolute trust.

A willingness to play the game on Logan’s terms.

The sharp throb caused him to stop just as he came upon another -- for lack of a better description -- a scent marker.

Damn, he’d have to take a moment to relieve the pressure. Next time he did this, he would definitely wear sweat pants. He unbuttoned the first three buttons...

And that’s when he heard the very soft chuckle.

He immediately looked around, searching for those demon eyes that glowed in the pale moonlight.

No luck.

He inhaled sharply again, trying to focus on where the strongest and warmest scent was.

The tree branch rustled.

A few leaves fell to the ground.

The chase was on.

It didn’t matter the logistics of Remy balancing on tree branches and sprinting away from him.

It mattered that his prize was sprinting away from him.

In the small part of Logan’s brain that wasn’t completely consumed by lustful hunting, he recognized where he was being led to: a small clearing about twenty yards ahead and to the left.

A place where he had mediated quite a few times.

Under a canopy of trees.

Flat ground.

No rocks jutting out.

He saw the flutter of a trench coat to the left away from the light thud of feet hitting the ground, and he smelled the distinct scent of arousal.

He launched himself forward and executed a tuck-dive-roll to his feet, stopping behind his prize as it turned on a single foot, tossed something to the side of him, and crouched...

Crouched....

Crouched...

A single claw sliced through the material covering his prize.

It wasn’t even a full thought, as he gathered his prize to him, his hardness slapping against...

Against...

Slicked skin.

He scented his prize.

Had another? No.

Fresh.

Unspoiled.

Prepared.

For him.

“Oui....” came the soft assent.

No fear.

And he plunged in.

Feeling the muscles of his prize ripple beneath his touch

Hearing the sharp gasp of pleasure/pain

Overwhelmed by tight heat

The explosion of sensations pouring in his mind.

The need to adjust the angle just so....

Untouched desire, needing.

A firm hand.

A steadying grip.

Driving... harder... faster...

Harder... faster...

Just there.

Just there.

His body, overwhelmed by sensation.

Like none he felt before.

Fucked and being fucked.

All at the same time.

In his mind.

The heat.

The pleasure/pain.

Harder... faster...

Harder... faster...

Warmth, spilling across his fingers.

A howl.

Primal.

Bestial.

A Wolverine.

Taking a Gambit.

An eruption.

Like none before.

Slowly....

Easing....

Haunting....

Focus....

Sharp breaths....

The salty taste.

Like wine.

Suddenly... one person.

“Je t’aime.”

The soft spoken words panted.

Not him.

His prize.

His gambit.

His Remy.

************(((((((((((((( Finis )))))))))))))))))************


End file.
